Pop

Fucked Up

Fucked Up's reputation precedes them. It's not just the matter of hype, though Gallows aside, it's hard to think of a hardcore punk band who have recently generated as many column inches. There are tales of bloodletting and violence at their gigs, and MTV studios left wrecked in their wake.

Perhaps such stories account for the crowd's muted initial response. Maybe they're nonplussed at the disparity between the band's reputation and the appearance of everyone on stage, bar mountainous lead singer Pink Eyes. For people who call themselves things like Concentration Camp and Mustard Gas, they look rather sweet and inoffensive. Alternatively, the crowd might be struck dumb with fear at the thought of Pink Eyes, who could stand to lose a few pounds, stage-diving. It seems a distinct possibility - he stands on the monitors at the front of the stage, arms aloft - but no. Instead, he smears himself with peanut butter, thus proving that life has more appealing sights to offer than a big, sweaty, topless man with peanut butter in his beard.

In lieu of bloodletting and violence, you have to content yourself with listening to their songs. That's no problem at all: it's abundantly evident that Fucked Up are a musical law unto themselves. Somewhere at their heart lurks the roar of Damaged-era Black Flag, but it's subsumed beneath all manner of distinctly un-punk traits: tricky time signatures; echoing guitar solos. It's a cocktail that shouldn't work, but does. For all the barked vocals and bleak lyrical content of No Epiphany and Police, there's something weirdly euphoric about the wall of distorted guitars, the surges in tempo and volume.

Good humour seems to infect the crowd, who even sing Happy Birthday to a fan who finds himself in Pink Eyes's sweaty embrace. "Sorry man," apologises the terrifying agent of destruction. "I got peanut butter on your new shirt."